A star of light
They say. They say that architects are original. I drive in the evening darkness. Orange lights illuminate the road. In the distance, the sky is still sunset. But the darkness is already immersing my car into the night. I drive and think back to architects. Original. I don't know if all of them are. Perhaps only some. Maybe just the one who designed the dentist's office. Rust-colored electric gate. A few steps illuminated by lowlights. The house is surrounded by wooden strips. Inside, small glass spaces. Some visible. Some hidden, polished. I walk.
They tell me to wait. I sit down. Around me, small books. A raku bowl with small white bags. Writings on top. They contain wipes to disinfect hands. Covid. On the walls, dim Christmas decorations. A wreath. That one is dim too. The room is weakly lit. The light comes from an immense lamp. Disproportionate for the space. I look at it. I look at it closely. It’s a large star of light. Made of transparent cardboard or light fabric. Warm, yellow light. I touch it. It’s light. The girl who told me to wait doesn’t look at me. I sit down. I take the book I brought with me: Icelandic tales. Stories halfway into nowhere. Stories of a nothing made of darkness or cold light, snow, icy puffs. Birds that come and go. Loves that crash and get lost but remain inside. Forever.
They call me. I look at the girl at the desk. She is waiting for me. I rest the book on the black armchair and sit in front of her. I realize that I hadn’t taken off my hat yet—the light green one—warm. Finally, my head has warmed up. I think about whether to take it off or not. I still feel a bit of pain from the biting cold—full winter, temperature below zero. I take off my hat, hoping my hair is neat. I don’t know if it is; I have no mirror to check myself in. I look for a reflection somewhere, but there isn’t one. She looks at me; I hope my hair is okay.
A friend told me yesterday that I look like one of the Gallagher brothers. I don’t know much about them; I don’t know if it’s a compliment or not, but I associate it with all the mean things people have said to me before. I've been told worse things than that. The girl looks at me again; I feel a long pain starting from my forehead and reaching behind my head. I lower myself and shift my gaze; I look at her again. She understands that I'm not feeling well. I tell her it’s a sharp pain in my head; she doesn’t need to worry about it and starts listing things that I don’t understand; I get lost several times.
I tell her that whatever she’s saying is getting lost in emptiness. Piles of emptiness. I don’t know if she appreciates it or not; I tell her it’s because of the pains; I mention that I've had surgery on my head. It left me with pain and makes it hard for me to follow her conversation properly. She asks a question; I tell her it was a tumor but that I'm fine now. So fine that I'm unable to follow her.
In reality, it's not just about the tumor; it's not just about the result of the surgery; it's a mix with dissociation. The result of what I'm experiencing right now. She's not there and is mixed with emptiness. She hands me a sheet. I think I'm supposed to sign it. She passes me a pen. I take it. The hand trembles. The pen falls. I look at my hand. It must be mine. I greet her. I ask her to pick up the pen. She does so. Signs. I thank her for the gesture.
The girl looks at me; I ask if the little plant in the pot is a poinsettia. She smiles and says yes. It’s strange. It’s white. Yes, it's white. I water it once a week. I thought every day. That would be excessive. In the morning, I touch the soil and decide whether to give it some water. It’s mid-January and it's still a beautiful poinsettia. She's still talking to me about the papers I've signed. I think.
Behind her, another lamp like the one in the waiting room: big, round, immense. Made of the same material: light fabric. They seem like sheets of papier-mâché tangled together. I ask her who chose them. They're beautiful. I think I'm the first one to ask her about the lamps. She doesn’t know how to answer. I think she only tells me that architects are original. They say so.
